<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Snapdragon by DonTheRock</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166946">Snapdragon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonTheRock/pseuds/DonTheRock'>DonTheRock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Andi Mack (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Acts of Kindness, Bettering Each Other, F/F, Fluff, Life lesson, Love, No Smut, Queer Character, Romance, Teenagers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:07:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonTheRock/pseuds/DonTheRock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"People don't have to hear you for you to be heard."</p><p>A story in which Iris, an aspiring writer, meets Libby, a mysterious girl who does nothing amazing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iris/Libby (Andi Mack)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written fully in Iris's POV.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I'd be lying if I didn't say there was something mysterious about her from the start. I never really knew her, no matter how hard I tried. She wasn't a book that could be opened and read through whenever one wished. She was more like a stone, something that had so obviously been formed through years of building and weathering, but it was impossible to know exactly what. </p><p>She was many minerals packed into one, yet I could never break them apart to find out the exact pieces. Every grain was a foundational to her structure, and it could not be separated from the rest. To do so would be to risk of losing the integrity of the rest, although I'm certain I wouldn't have been able to split her into her individual components even if I tried. Unless together, the pieces simply wouldn't have made sense. </p><p>Contrary to what many people believed, nothing about her was fragile. Hey eyes contained this spark of determination, like she always had some big plan stirring in her brain, and others mistook her quietness for weakness, yet she was anything but weak. She held her chin up, and nobody knew why, not even me, but that's part of what made her so fascinating. Her silent strength resonated in every room, holding me captivated in its beat. And when she was put under fire, she didn't melt or fall apart. She became a gem.</p><p>It's so strange to think back on it now, back to the first day I saw her. I didn't know how important that day was when I was living it. I didn't know how important she was. But now I do, and I believe that when someone experiences something wonderful, they should share it, so that's what I'm going to do for you.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! I'm trying something new with my prologue for this one. The rest of the story will still be written in present tense, aside from the epilogue, so that will be as usual. Anyway, I will write the Wonah story, but I'm going to write that once KAAFF Rising is finished, although I may post the first part sooner. I'm just really excited for this story, because I had an idea, and I really wanted to do it. Well, good night! I love you all, lovelies!</p><p>Important note for the rest of the story: any time dialogue is only signed and not spoken, it will be written in quotations and italics to make it clear for you guys. If it is spoken and signed, it will be written as regular dialogue.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amber's bedroom can be described in one word: gay. A giant lesbian flag hangs on the wall above a photo collage of various famous figures including King Princess, Hayley Kiyoko, Clairo, Jessie Paege, girl in red, and more. All of those are mixed in with various heart stickers, some pink and some rainbow, as well as photos of Amber and her girlfriend, Andi. Every image has been drawn on with coloured marker, something that happens when she gets bored. There's one photo of her and Andi kissing which has been circled by a red heart with rays like sun streaming out from the shape. </p><p>She currently sits on her bed while I'm swivelling around in her desk chair, in my own world as I tell her about what's got me excited lately. </p><p>"Submissions for Utah's youth story competition are being accepted soon. I didn't submit a story last year, but I think I'm going to this year."</p><p>"Do it," Amber encourages. "You should."</p><p>"I will," I agree. "I just need to think of what to write about."</p><p>"Write about me," Amber suggests with a grin. </p><p>"Perfect," I joke. "Actually, though, I want to win so bad. If I did, I would get my story published in one of the most popular national writing magazines in the country. And all the contestants get to go to Salt Lake City where the winner will be announced and asked to read an excerpt from their story to the audience."</p><p>"Well, I have total confidence in you," Amber tells me. "Maybe I should write something for it."</p><p>"Since when do you write?" I question. </p><p>"I started writing love poems for Andi instead of goodnight texts," Amber replies, and then she laughs. "But that probably doesn't qualify as a story."</p><p>"Probably not."</p><p>I slow my chair's spinning a bit to get a look at the clock on Amber's nightstand, and I realize it's already past seven. </p><p>"Hey, I should get going," I say. "I'm supposed to watch my siblings tonight while my parents go to some work party, and I still have to get gas on the way home."</p><p>"Aww, okay," Amber groans. "Say hi to Ainsley and Isla for me."</p><p>Ainsley and Isla are my siblings of ages 6 and 10 respectfully. Since they're so young I have to babysit them whenever my parents go out. They would get a real babysitter, but Ainsley is deaf, and there aren't many babysitters who know sign language, so I'm the only qualified person. Isla is deaf as well, but she uses a hearing aid to hear, whereas that doesn't help Ainsley. </p><p>I get up, proud of myself for not being dizzy from all the spinning, and say, "Will do."</p><p>Amber waves as I show myself out and down the stairs. As I descend into the living room, I look over and see TJ and Cyrus snogging on the couch. They break apart immediately, both scarlet-faced in embarrassment. </p><p>"Oh, hi, Iris," Cyrus says in a wavering voice. </p><p>I'm grinning, trying to hold back my laughter, as I reply, "What's up?"</p><p>"Uh, nothing much," TJ answers.</p><p>"Right," I say sarcastically. I turn toward the front door to leave, giving them a wave and saying, "See you guys."</p><p>"See you," Cyrus responds.</p><p>________________________________________</p><p>The gas station lacks colour of any kind, except for the bold, red logo of its convenience store, titled Shop'n'Shop. Its age is visible in the yellowing of the walls at the base where mud from the concrete has smeared and dried up. Although not as cheap as the franchised gas stations, this one is close to my house, and it sells gas, so that's really all I need. </p><p>I pull up to the farthest pump from the store and shut off my car. As I step out, I glance around at the calmness of the evening. The sun paints a golden glow on the land, with shadows of buildings and trees stretching out five times the original source's length. The only sound other than the chirping of the birds about to go home to rest is the footsteps of one lone person nearby, a girl with strawberry blonde hair down to her shoulders and a white and blue polka-dot dress. The girl strolls up the sidewalk slowly, taking in the warmth of the sunset. </p><p>I reach to lift the latch that opens the door to my gas tank before closing my car door and going over to the pump to pay. There's a delay after pressing the buttons before the machine reacts, but it eventually gets to the part where I'm instructed to insert my card, so I slide my debit into the slot and wait for it to process. <em>Error. Card declined.</em> I take it out and go through all the steps again, retrying my card. <em>Error. Card declined.</em></p><p>With a huff of annoyance, I shove my debit card back into my wallet and trudge toward the store. My debit's been acting difficult lately, having issues with not being read properly, but usually it works on the second try. I guess it's about time for me to actually just go to the bank and replace my card. </p><p>The door signals a chime as I enter the shop and walk up to the front counter where a familiar teenage boy gives me a smile. </p><p>"Hi, Iris," Gus says. "What can I do for you?"</p><p>"Hey, Gus. Can I get gas for pump 6?"</p><p>"Sure. How much?"</p><p>"Uh, forty dollars?"</p><p>"Coming right up."</p><p>The boy clicks through his computer, and a puzzled expression falls over him. </p><p>"You already have forty dollars set up," he says. </p><p>"What?" I say in surprise. "But my card declined."</p><p>"How many times did you try?"</p><p>"Twice."</p><p>"Well, it says here there was a third transaction which went through," he explains. </p><p>I'm pretty sure I only tried twice, and both times resulted in error, but I'm not going to question free gas, so I just thank Gus and head back out to the pump. Gus was correct. It says it has forty dollars loaded, and it's waiting for me to choose a gas type. I look around, wondering if someone else paid for this because I certainly didn't. I know I only put my card in twice. </p><p>The only person in sight is the ginger-haired girl who's now walking down the sidewalk, going away from me. I rush over to the cement and attempt to call for her.</p><p>"Hello!" </p><p>She gives no answer. </p><p>"Hello?"</p><p>Her sandals patter against the concrete as she floats away with the grace of a lily pad on a pond. I spend a moment just watching her. There's a washed-out haze over her entire figure, probably from the sunlight, that causes her to appear as though she's just a ghost. The optical illusion makes me want to get closer to prove that she's real and not a figment of my imagination. But she's too far to go after now, so I let go of my curiosity and return back to the pump to fill up my car. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Sorry I'm not updating the other stories. I just really wanted to get this part out. I'm also planning to get the first part of the Wonah story up soon, jsut so that you guys have something to look forward to, however I'm not going to be updating that nor this story until I've completed KAAFF. I don't want to have a bunch of stories going that take too long to be updated, so bear with me please. Thank you, lovelies, and have a lovely day.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"All I'm saying is that I think necessities should be tax-free," I state. </p><p>Amber spins around from where she's been refilling the napkin dispensers behind the counter at The Spoon. I never used to hang around here that often during the school year, but now that summer's come, and I don't have a job to fill my days, I don't exactly have anywhere else to be, so I've been coming here to talk to her whenever the diner's dead enough that she isn't rushing around. Her boss doesn't mind as long as she's getting her work done, which she always is. She's very diligent, and she never has a problem telling me when she's too busy to talk. Still, she's makes sure I know that she likes the company. Since Andi is working at Nine Lives down the street, Amber isn't able to see her girlfriend as often, but she does get to use Andi's discount on clothes, so it has an upside. </p><p>"Iris," Amber says as she sets one of the metal napkin dispensers down to my right, "I wouldn't consider Netflix a necessity."</p><p> "But I'd surly die without Stranger Things," I argue. </p><p>"Okay, but food is a necessity, and that has tax."</p><p>She has a good point, although I hate to admit it. It makes my already obviously unreasonable complaint even less valid. </p><p>"Okay, fine," I huff. </p><p>"You use my Netflix account anyway," Amber adds. "Why do you care about the tax?"</p><p>"Because if it didn't have a tax, I'd get my own," I explain. </p><p>She lets out a laugh and shakes her head. As she does, she notices something to my left.</p><p>"Be right back," she says. "There's a customer."</p><p>Amber goes over to the till to help the person, but as I glance over to watch, I realize I recognize the girl standing there. I watch as she points to an item on the menu, and I wonder why she doesn't just read it out for Amber. After Amber types in the order for take-out, the girl pays, and Amber comes back over to me. </p><p>"I'm back," she says. </p><p>"Hold on," I respond.</p><p>Too curious about the ginger waiting on a stool at the other end of the counter, I leave Amber to go over to her. As I approach, she glances up from her phone.</p><p>"Hi," I say. "Sorry, um, I saw you walking in my neighbourhood yesterday, and..."</p><p>She interrupts my speech by lifting her hands and signing, <em>"I'm sorry. I'm deaf."</em></p><p>I've never had to use ASL to communicate with anyone outside of my family before, but now I'm really glad I know it. </p><p>"I saw you yesterday," I explain again, signing it along with my words. "I was just curious if it was you."</p><p><em>"If what was me?"</em> she questions, brows furrowed in confusion. </p><p>"The person who paid for my gas."</p><p>She shakes her head, answering, "No. Sorry."</p><p>"Oh, that's okay," I say. </p><p>In all honesty, I don't believe her. She was literally the only person outside that day. It had to have been her. </p><p>"Well, if you do see the person who did it," I say, "tell them I say thank you."</p><p><em>"If I happen to find them, I'll pass the message along,"</em> she replies with a grin. </p><p>It was definitely her. She seems too smiley to have not been involved.</p><p>"I've just been thinking about it a lot since then," I tell her. "Why would someone spend forty dollars on a stranger?"</p><p>Libby shrugs. <em>"Maybe they thought you were pretty."</em></p><p>I feel a blush colour my face, and I can't help but smile. I can't tell if she's flirting or not, but I hope she is. Girls don't usually flirt with me. I suppose it's because I don't have the typical queer look, but I'm definitely not straight, so it would be quite nice if she were flirting. </p><p>"It's a shame it's not you, then," I say, "because then I would have to say the same thing about you."</p><p><em>"I can still think you're pretty,"</em> Libby responds. <em>"My name is Libby, by the way."</em></p><p>"I'm Iris. It's nice to meet you."</p><p><em>"You too,"</em> she signs. <em>"I don't usually meet people who can speak sign language."</em></p><p>"My brother is deaf, so my whole family uses sign language."</p><p><em>"How many siblings do you have?" </em>she wonders.</p><p>"A brother who's six, and a sister who's ten."</p><p><em>"I wish I had siblings,"</em> she signs. <em>"I just have my parents, but they're also wonderful people. I do have a dog, though."</em></p><p>"I've always wanted a dog! What's its name?"</p><p>
  <em>"Her name is Tinker."</em>
</p><p>"Any relation to Tinker Bell?" I ask. </p><p>
  <em>"Yes, actually. I got her when I was ten, and I was obsessed with Tinker Bell at the time. I had all the merchandise for every one of the movies."</em>
</p><p>"I love that. That's adorable. I was the same way with The Incredibles. I was convinced I was a superhero who just hadn't gotten my powers yet."</p><p><em>"The Incredibles was a fantastic movie," </em>she signs.<em> "Have you seen the second one?"</em></p><p>I put on a face of shame as I reply, "I haven't. I missed it when it was in theatres, and I haven't gotten around to it yet."</p><p>Libby shakes her head to show her disappointment, but she can't hide her smile. "You should watch it. It's on Disney Plus."</p><p>"I don't have Disney Plus," I respond. "I used to use my friend's before her family ended their subscription, and now I can't watch it anymore."</p><p>"I would suggest you watch it with me, but I would have to question your judgement if you agreed to go over to a stranger's house," Libby says with a giggle. "But I do want to do something with you, so what's your opinion on roller skating?"</p><p>An opportunity to spend time with an adorable girl like her, I rarely get, so of course I know what I'm going to answer. </p><p>"I'll have to see when I'm free," I say, "but I'd love to."</p><p>She smiles and then picks up her phone to give it to me with the contacts screen open. I type in my number and give the device back to her. </p><p>Next, she asks me another question. <em>"You go to Grant, right?"</em></p><p>"Yeah," I say. </p><p><em>"Me too,"</em> she signs. </p><p>"Really? I don't recognize you from there."</p><p><em>"Most people don't,"</em> she explains. <em>"I guess I'm just not very memorable."</em></p><p>"Well, you've definitely made a memorable impression on me," I reply.</p><p>Her attention is stolen by Amber who brings a cardboard take-out container over to Libby. Libby receives it with a smile of thanks, and Amber flicks her eyes to me for a moment in confusion before heading back to her work. </p><p>"Why did you order?" I ask Libby.</p><p><em>"Just some pancakes,"</em> she answers. </p><p>"The pancakes here are so good," I say. </p><p>Libby smiles then signs, "I have to get going, but I'll text you. I did enjoy talking to you."</p><p>"Same," I agree. "I'll see you some other time, then."</p><p>She nods as she picks up the box of food before leaving the diner with a jingle triggered by the swinging door. While I watch the place where Libby disappears, Amber places her chin on her fists, leaning on the counter behind me, and I spin around to see her grinning wide. </p><p>"Who was that?" she asks. </p><p>"Her name was Libby," I answer. "I'm pretty sure she paid for my car's gas yesterday, but she won't admit it."</p><p>"She sounds nice. Plus she's pretty. You know, if you two end up dating, you won't have to third wheel with me and Andi all the time. We could have double dates."</p><p>"This is literally the first time I've spoken to her," I say. "I'm not thinking about dating." </p><p>That's a lie, but I'm only thinking about it because I'm starved for romantic interaction. That, and I both read and write a lot of romance stories—probably more than is good for me—so my soft heart just wants to live a story like one of those. If this thing with Libby actually works out, maybe I'll consider writing it into a story. I wonder if many people would want to buy it if I got it published? I would hope so. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! I finally did what I said I was going to do and updated this. I don't really have much to say, so yeah, that's it. Um, I love you all. Have a lovely night!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>"Would you consider yourself a good roller skater?"</em> Libby asks me. </p><p>She walks alongside me down the sidewalk. The roller rink is an indigo-painted strip in the line of buildings. The glass doors lead directly into a staircase that spirals down to the rink. I haven't actually been here in years, so I can't remember what it looks like, but I remember there being a disco ball over the floor. </p><p>"Not particularly," I respond. "I always use roller blades instead, because roller skates are hard to not fall with, but I'm not good at roller blading either."</p><p>She lets out a giggle and reaches for the door handle. Although she holds it open, I motion for her to go first, and she accepts the gesture. As we descend into the roller rink, I see the coloured lights begin to take over the shadows, and at the bottom of the stairs, the space opens up into a huge area split into three parts: the lockers and seats, the concession window with the tables nearby for eating, and the big oval rink. </p><p>There are decent number of people here today, which makes me a little nervous to get out there and fall in front of everyone, but Libby isn't fazed at all. She walks right up to the boy at the till and uses her hands to show the number one. The boy working realizes she can't hear him after trying to ask her once if she wants skates or blades, so he grabs one of each type and lifts them up for Libby to point at, and she tells her size number with her fingers. </p><p>After she's finished paying, I step up to pay for me, and the boy begins with the same process, but I stop him, saying, "It's okay. Blades, please."</p><p>Once we both have our footwear, we go to put our belongings away in a shared locker, and then we sit to tie up my blades and her skates. </p><p>"So how intimidated by your skill am I going to be?" I ask her. </p><p><em>"People don't find me that intimidating,"</em> she responds.<em> "But I do skate frequently."</em></p><p>"Lovely, okay. I already know I'm going to embarrass myself, then."</p><p>She smiles, shaking her head, as she stands up with her skates on. Her hand holds out for me, and I take it, feeling giddy at her touch. She leads me out through the gateway and onto the rink. Right away, she begins rolling backward, smooth as a paraglider, and I can tell she's too humble about how good she is. Meanwhile, I clunk onto the floor like a baby deer standing for the first time.</p><p>Seeing my struggle, Libby takes my hands and steers me along as she skates backwards. The others on the floor pass us by, but I continue at my snail-like pace, hoping she'll hold on to my hands for longer. But eventually she does let go, and she spins around to skate beside me. </p><p><em>"You're not that bad,"</em> Libby tells me. </p><p>I try to smile at her, but the second I do, I feel my ankles give out, and I go tumbling backward. Before I can hit the ground, Libby latches onto my hand and pulls me back up. I'm positive I must have a blush like a cherry on my face, but she doesn't mention it. She just keeps skating with me. While we carry on, the light from the disco ball spots her hair, and her clothes glow under the black lights. After I get into my rhythm on wheels, I'm able to have a conversation again. </p><p>"I've always wanted a disco ball," I say. </p><p><em>"I have one in my basement,"</em> she replies. </p><p>"You have an actual disco ball?"</p><p><em>"Not like this one. It's an electric one,"</em> she explains, <em>"a round lamp with coloured lights that sits on a table. But it's just as neat."</em></p><p>"Where did you find it?"</p><p>
  <em>"I'm pretty sure it was thirty dollars from Discovery hut."</em>
</p><p>Discovery Hut is a small shop in downtown Shadyside, which specializes in selling board games and card games of all kinds, along with a bunch of other random trinkets like toys, stuffed animals, and weird science-related items and activities. </p><p>"I love Discovery Hut," I say with a laugh. "I always go there when I need to get a birthday gift but have no idea what to get. There's always a bunch of random things. My go-to birthday gift when I don't know what to get is a fifteen dollar lava lamp."</p><p><em>"I'd be happy with that gift,"</em> she signs with a giggle. </p><p>"What's your go-to gift?" I question. </p><p>She takes a second to think about that, eventually answering,<em> "I don't have one. I just always look until I find something that I know the person would love."</em></p><p>"What about if you don't know what they'd love?"</p><p>
  <em>"Then why would I be getting them a gift if I don't know them?"</em>
</p><p>People are complicated. Sometimes they're so complicated that it's just hard to know what they would like. Even for people like Amber, anything that she'd obviously want is something she already has, so it's really hard to find something special. I guess Libby doesn't have that problem with her friends.</p><p>"Good point," I say. </p><p>Suddenly, the little boy skating right in front of us drops to the floor with a thunk, and I have to swerve to avoid rolling right into him. I manage to stop myself on the wall when I realize Libby's not beside me anymore. At a glance back, I see the girl kneeling down next to the fallen boy. She reaches into the pocket of her jean jacket and pulls out two bandaids, one with a Frozen 2 design, and the other with Toy Story 4. The boy chooses the one with Anna on it, and Libby peels the wrapping off then sticks it over the bleeding scrape on his knee. I notice who I assume must be the boy's mother come over from the other side of the rink and thank Libby, to which she responds with a smile. </p><p>As the mother lifts her son up off the floor and begins skating again, Libby gets up and glides over to where I'm waiting. </p><p>"That was so nice of you," I tell her. </p><p>She just shrugs, signing, <em>"He was hurt. I really didn't do anything special."</em></p><p>Before I can argue, she takes off ahead of me on her skates. A second later, she glances back and waves for me to get moving. </p><p>After a while of skating, we eventually steer off toward the concession counter where we both order fries and chicken strips to share, along with a root beer for me and a Dr. Pepper for her. She only picks at the fries, so I assume she's not a fan of chicken strips. She gazes out at the roller skaters as we eat, but I have my eyes on her. Eventually, she brings her eyes forward again, and she notices me staring, which causes pink to brush her cheeks. </p><p><em>"Other than roller-blading," </em>she signs, <em>"what are your talents?"</em></p><p>"First of all, I wouldn't consider rollerblading a strength of mine," I reply. "But I do like writing."</p><p>
  <em>"Like stories?"</em>
</p><p>"Yeah. Fiction, though sometimes I like getting creative in how I write in my diary."</p><p>She laughs a little and signs,<em> "Are you good?"</em></p><p>"I think so," I say. "I submit my work to magazines and competitions sometimes. I've gotten my short stories featured in a few things. There was a couple blog contests, and two writing magazines, although those were both pretty small. I'm submitting one of my stories for the big Utah youth competition this year. I really want to win that. If I did, I'd have my story in a huge magazine, and then so many people would read it and know my writing, which would be amazing."</p><p>She smiles at that, and a moment later, signs, "I write stories sometimes."</p><p>"Really? Do you share them, or are they just for you?"</p><p><em>"I share them,"</em> she responds. </p><p>"Are they on the internet?" I wonder, ready to get my phone out to find them.</p><p><em>"No,"</em> she answers. <em>"I share them other places. Sometimes I also leave them on tables in coffee shops or in newspaper boxes for someone to maybe find and enjoy."</em></p><p>That's the most wholesome thing I've heard all year. It's also a really interesting way for her to get her name out, because people could read her stuff and want to find more by her. </p><p>"What do you write about?" I ask. </p><p>
  <em>"Different things. My most recent story was called Snapdragon. It's about a girl, not a snapdragon."</em>
</p><p>She laughs a little, and I laugh along. At this moment, I wish she could hear her laugh, because she would certainly think it's adorable. That makes me feel even more lucky for being blessed with the ability to appreciate it. </p><p>"Maybe I could read it sometime," I say. </p><p>She shrugs. <em>"Maybe."</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello, lovelies! I know this story has a slow start, but every piece is important to the overall message. I hope you will like it, because it's definitely going to end up being a bit different than my other stories. Anyway, have a lovely night!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's drizzling outside, but the grey sky looks colourful due to the mood I'm in. My date with Libby was a few days ago, but I'm still floating from the time. Amber and Andi can see that as they sit on the other side of the Spoon booth from me. </p><p>"So who is this girl?" Andi questions. "You've been gushing about her, but I still don't know who she is."</p><p>"Well, we took a photo, so I'll show you."</p><p>I find the image of me and Libby together on the roller rink floor, her smiling wide and me looking slightly like I'm about to fall over. When I show the screen of my phone to Andi, she has an epiphany. </p><p>"Oh, I think I've seen her before," she says. "I'm pretty sure she's in art, because I see her in that room sometimes."</p><p>"Oh, cool," I respond. "She never told me she did art."</p><p>She seems incredibly humble from what I know of her. Any time I tried to tell her she was good at anything, she reflected the praise back on me. I kind of wish she would've told me she did art, though. I bet she's amazing at it. </p><p>"Are you going on another date?" Amber asks. </p><p>"Yeah. We're going to the food truck festival downtown this Friday."</p><p>"Food trucks?" Andi says. "I should tell TJ and Cyrus. I bet TJ would love that."</p><p>"Well, I'm excited," I say. </p><p>"I can tell," Amber responds with a laugh. "I haven't seen you beaming like this since Cyrus."</p><p>"Yeah, well, hopefully this turns out better than that did," I reply with a chuckle. </p><p>_________________________________________</p><p>Downtown is more crowded than I've ever seen it before. People roam Main Street, going from vendor to vendor, trying everything they see. Libby and I just finished drinking watermelon lemonade from one truck, and now she's grabbing my hand and pulling me over to one that sells gluten-free waffles on sticks. </p><p>When she gets up there, she points to the first item on the menu and symbols that she wants two, and the girl working the till punches in the order. After Libby pays, the order is ready immediately. Obviously they were already cooked and prepared. Libby gives a nod of thanks to the worker and takes the two plates, each containing one blueberry waffle on a stick with syrup drizzled overtop. </p><p>"Are you that hungry?" I ask. </p><p>She shakes her head and holds out one of the containers in my direction. I take it with a smile. </p><p>"Thank you," I sign. </p><p>
  <em>"You're welcome."</em>
</p><p>She picks up her stick to take a bite out of the waffle as we walk. Her arm dusts mine, and I feel my skin get goosebumps even though it's summer and hot outside. She makes me feel like a crystal glimmering under her light. Honestly, if it were cloudy overhead, I'd probably still only see sun.</p><p>After we finish our waffles, I spot the next truck I want to go to. </p><p>"What about deep fried pickles?" I say.</p><p><em>"I can't eat those, but you can," </em>she signs. </p><p>"Are you allergic to pickles?" I question.</p><p><em>"I have celiac disease," </em>she says. </p><p>"Oh. I guess that explains the gluten-free waffles."</p><p>
  <em>"Let's go get you your pickles."</em>
</p><p>She starts toward the truck I pointed out, and I go up to order for myself. Once I receive a cup of pickle spears, I spin around to rejoin Libby, but she's not behind me where I thought she was. After a little searching, I spot her over with a group of people all drawing chalk on the road. </p><p>I examine the drawings as I walk over. All the kids draw basic outlines of pictures I can hardly make out. Some older people are doing their own art, which looks a hundred times better. Libby is by far the most talented, though. She draws an image of a girl, following the instructions of two little kids who sit around her, selecting the colours of the features. The drawing would look incredibly realistic, with exquisite details and shading, if it weren't for the decisions to have blue skin and purple hair. Once she's finished drawing, it looks kind of like a pop art, really amazing pop art. But then she gives her chalk sticks to the kids watching and taps on the drawing, letting them add their own horribly messy features onto it. It almost hurts to watch such an incredible art piece be ruined by children who can't draw at all, but Libby doesn't see it the way I do. She smiles like this was her intention to begin with.</p><p>When she finally notices me, she stands up and comes over. </p><p><em>"Sorry,"</em> she signs. <em>"I saw the drawing and wanted to join in."</em></p><p>"No, it's okay," I say. "You're really talented."</p><p>She gives me a small smile. <em>"Thanks."</em></p><p>"You should be an artist when you're older," I tell her. "You'd be incredible."</p><p>
  <em>"Didn't you already say I was talented?"</em>
</p><p>"Well, yeah, but you should share that with other people."</p><p><em>"That's what I'm doing now," </em>she signs. </p><p>Then she walks on ahead of me, and I take a moment to understand what she said. Sure, I guess drawing on the street is sharing her art, but she could do so much more. I wonder why she doesn't realize that, or if maybe she does but simply doesn't want to. </p><p>Noticing that I'm not beside her, she glances back and waves for me to come. I pull myself out of my thoughts and hurry to join her. </p><p>_________________________________________</p><p>I started spending more time with Libby than with anyone else. Rather than go to The Spoon all the time, I'd hang out with Libby. Sometimes I'd bring her to The Spoon, and we'd keep my best friend company together. After our fifth date, I finally brought her to my house, because she was curious about what it looked like. She had the idea that my room would be apricot orange, my favorite colour, and that I'd have the kind of curtains that are made out of just a million thin strands of beads. She wouldn't believe me when I told her I didn't, but now she's here seeing it for herself. </p><p>She gazes around at the pale blue walls and bare windows. Nothing in here is really me. My family never actually repainted it after we bought the house, and I didn't bother redecorating. Now I have too much stuff on the shelves and in drawers and on the windowsill to be worth it. Knick-knacks clutter the space, many of them having origins which I can't even recall. I think the one seashell is from the beach when I was six, but I'm not sure about that either. </p><p>Libby slowly examines the line of award ribbons over my dresser, eventually spinning to look at me, saying, <em>"You have a lot of ribbons. You must be really talented."</em></p><p>I sit down on my bed, and she wanders over to settle next to me. </p><p>"Those are all from when I was little," I say. "Gymnastics and dance and soccer and those things. My mom makes me keep them up, but all I really care about now is writing. It's something I really love, and I want to be recognized for doing something I love. I want to be known for that."</p><p><em>"Didn't you say you have been recognized?" </em>Libby asks. <em>"You said you won contests."</em></p><p>"Yeah, but those aren't the kind that get my name out there. They're just small."</p><p>
  <em>"All big things are made up of small things. Sometimes we just can't see the parts, but they're still there making it operate."</em>
</p><p>"I want to write for the rest of my life," I say. "I want to make a living out of it."</p><p><em>"Even if you don't make a living from it," </em>she starts, <em>"you can still do it for the rest of your life."</em></p><p>I give myself a moment to think about that. It seems like every second thing she says surprises me somehow. I have this idea of how many depths a person can contain, but she constantly breaks that mould. Sometimes I wonder if she's even real or if she's just something I made up to prove that perfection really exists, but then I remember that I don't think my brain is nearly wide enough to make up something like her. </p><p>"Do you know how amazing you are?" I ask after a moment. </p><p>She smiles and looks down, her face turning pink as she tucks some hair behind her ear. The way the sunlight shines in through my bedroom window and illuminates her every inch makes her look so beautiful, like a dream. I want to know if she's real, and there's one way that I know for sure will give me answer. </p><p>All in an instant, I take her jaw in my hand and bring my lips to hers, and she touches my shoulder, leaning into the kiss. Every second that we're together is another that I spend basking in her light, inviting the rays in to power my breath and feed my energy. She is most definitely real, perfection in person, someone I still don't fully understand, but I want to. And as we drift apart, I hear birds chirping their songs outside my window, but all I can think about is how man may have walked on the moon, but I just kissed the sun. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! I think this was cute. The rest of the story is going be quite complicated and interesting and I'm very excited for it, so I hope you are all going to stick around. I love you! Goodbye!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Sorry I took longer than usual," Amber says. "Today was hectic."</p><p>She pulls her hat off as she sits down in the booth with me, finally able to talk now that her shift is over.  Today was busier than usual. Amber says it gets like this when they have special deals, and today happened to be 50% off milkshakes day. I obviously already had three while waiting for Amber to be done, and now my insides feel like Jell-O. Come to think of it, maybe me having three orders was part of what took her extra long to get off her shift. </p><p>"It's okay," I say. "I'm not meeting Libby for another hour."</p><p>"Of course," Amber says. "I was surprised when I saw you here alone. You guys are practically attached at the hip."</p><p>"She had to help her mom with groceries today," I explain. "But we're going for a walk tonight."</p><p>"You guys are so cute," Amber says with a smile. "How long has it been again?"</p><p>"Almost a month," I answer. </p><p>"And you're absolutely glowing."</p><p>I feel myself blush at the comment. </p><p>"Girl, don't be embarrassed," she says. "She's obsessed with you too. When she came here this morning, she told me about how she's excited to see you again later."</p><p>Amber knew a little bit of ASL from being around my siblings, but now she knows more from talking to Libby and me a lot. She still gets stumped by some more unordinary words, but she can mostly hold basic conversations pretty well in sign language. </p><p>"She was here today?" I say.</p><p>"Yeah, she comes here every morning," Amber explains. "She apparently loves her morning pancakes."</p><p>I get a flashback to the day I first saw her here. She was ordering pancakes back then too. But something else I learned about her clashes with that memory. </p><p>"She can't have gluten, though," I say. </p><p>"Well, she doesn't seem to mind it in the pancakes," Amber responds. "Maybe it's just mild?"</p><p>"Maybe, but I've still never seen her eat anything with gluten in it before."</p><p>"Maybe she gets them for a family member," Amber suggests. </p><p>"Yeah," I mumble. "I guess."</p><p>I don't mind that she does that. Obviously, it has nothing to do with me. She's just never mentioned the pancake thing to me ever since I saw her getting them that first day. I wonder why she never told me about it. I suppose it's not that deep. They're probably just for someone in her family, and it's probably so normal that she doesn't even think that much about it. Yeah. I guess that's it. </p><p>_________________________________________</p><p>The breeze blows dandelion seeds from the nearby lawn past the image of the golden sky lighting the neighbourhood like a new fire. Libby holds my hand as we walk, but she lets it go when she notices the dandelions and goes over to pick one out of the grass. She spins around and blows gently, scattering the white fluff through the air. </p><p><em>"I love dandelions,"</em> she signs after dropping the empty stem. <em>"Want to know my favorite part of them?"</em></p><p>"Sure," I reply. </p><p>
  <em>"They're dead."</em>
</p><p>I furrow my brows at that, so she explains further. </p><p>
  <em>"They're probably one of the only things in this world that are more fun when they're dead. Dandelions are beautiful when they're alive, but once they die and the seeds come in, that's when they're fun to pick and blow, and they look like fairy dust in the air."</em>
</p><p>"Isn't that how fairies are born?" I say, remembering the first Tinker Bell movie. "From dandelion seeds?"</p><p><em>"Also, from a baby's laugh,"</em> Libby reminds me.<em> "I know a bit too much about fairies."</em></p><p>"There's no such thing as knowing to much about fairies," I assure her.</p><p>She giggles and relinks her arm though mine to continue walking. While we do, my eyes watch her smile so intently, and I'm just waiting for the right moment to pull her in and kiss her. But before that, I remember something. </p><p>"Who are the pancakes for?"</p><p>She removes her arm from mine and looks at me. At first, she seems to not know what I'm talking about, but then she realizes. </p><p><em>"Those are for my friend,"</em> she answers.</p><p>"Your friend?"</p><p>
  <em>"There's a woman in the retirement home near my house. She loves pancakes, but she doesn't have any family, and she can't get them from the home, so I bring them to her."</em>
</p><p>I'm slightly in shock. She never mentioned that she did that, and that's such a kind thing to do that I'd think she would want me to know. </p><p>Rather than say that, though, I just step up closer to her and tell her, "You, Libby, are truly wonderful."</p><p>She smiles and comes closer as I do, eventually meeting my lips with hers, and I savour the moment like chocolate that will melt away at some point, but she never does. She's here during the kiss, and she's still here after the kiss, and when she tucks her arm through mine. And she's still here as we continue walking down the sidewalk in pure peace. </p><p>________________________________________</p><p>Libby moves her checker piece ahead one square before flicking her eyes up to me, anxious to see what my move will be. The two of us sit on my bed with the game board between us. I'm about to make my move when I hear a notification on my phone, and my heart rate spikes. I reach for my phone, and Libby looks confused.</p><p>"Sorry," I tell her. "But I got an email back."</p><p>
  <em>"From the story competition?"</em>
</p><p>I've been waiting to hear their response to see if my story was accepted for the Utah youth competition. They're still accepting submissions right now, but they always say whether a story was thought to be good enough to move forward to the finals or not once it is read over, and I'm finally hearing back about mine. </p><p>"Yes," I reply. </p><p>I open the email eagerly, but my hopes are crushed the moment I start reading.</p><p><em>"What does it say?"</em> Libby asks. </p><p>I put down my phone, trying not to let my disappointment show, but it's obvious. </p><p>"It wasn't accepted," I say. "I really wanted win this year."</p><p>Libby's eyes go sad. <em>"I'm sorry. Maybe you could write for other things. Continue with smaller things, and try again for this one next year."</em></p><p>"I guess, but the small things don't matter as much," I huff. "This competition could've gotten me known across the country, and I would've been able to be heard. Now I won't."</p><p><em>"Why not?"</em> Libby argues. <em>"Because your story won't be read by millions of people? Because they won't know your name? Iris, people don't have to hear you for you to be heard. Sometimes, you can say stuff, and nobody will know that it was you who said it, but it still makes a difference."</em></p><p>I know she's trying to be positive, but I really don't need her to be positive right now. I'd rather she just be upset with me. That's where she lacks sometimes. It's as though when I look at rain, all she sees is food for plants. What she doesn't see is that I'm drenched and cold, and I just need her to focus on me for a minute, not on some bigger picture that only she can see. </p><p>"Libby, I don't need a lecture on the things that matter. I can be upset that I didn't get this."</p><p>
  <em>"But you're not upset about not winning. You're upset about people not knowing your name. Why do you think that being famous will make you happy?"</em>
</p><p>"I just want to be important," I say, my voice raising in volume even though I know she can't hear me anyway. It's a habit, I guess. </p><p>
  <em>"If other people know you, they're not you, so that doesn't change how you know you."</em>
</p><p>She doesn't get it. Obviously she doesn't, and how could I ever expect her to? Nobody knows who she is. She went to my school, and I'd never even seen her before. She doesn't do anything that other people would know her for. She has no desire to be anything other than ordinary, but I'm just not content with being a nobody.</p><p>"You don't get it!" I snap, and I see her flinch a little, but I keep going. "You're okay with drawing your art and having kids ruin it after. You're okay with spending your time doing nothing that will ever get you noticed. I'm not like that! I want to actually do something with my life! You may be okay with being a nobody and being nothing more than average, but I want to matter!"</p><p>Libby just stares at me for a moment, and I immediately know I went too far. But it's too late to take it back. </p><p>When she does respond, she stands up and glances to the ground first before signing,<em> "I wouldn't want you to be with someone who's average."</em></p><p>"Libby, I didn't—"</p><p><em>"Enjoy being known by the world,"</em> she goes on, stopping me from finishing. <em>"I'll just be over here being a nobody."</em></p><p>She turns around before I can say anything else, and as soon as the door slams shut behind her, I burst into tears. I didn't mean what I said. Or maybe I did. I don't know. I just don't understand why she can't understand me. Maybe that was the problem with the two of us from the beginning. We see the world so differently that we were bound to split onto different paths eventually. We just needed to get to the point where our brick roads began to deviate. This is that point. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello. Yeah, those feelings went from good to bad in a hot second. Sorry to kill your spirits like that, but it's all really important. I promise. Anyway, I love you all! Goodnight.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I feel horrible. I didn't want to hurt her. I would never want to hurt her. I was just upset, but now she's gone. Not bothering to wipe the tears from my face, I run out of my room and to the front door. When I open it, she's nowhere in sight. She broke up with me, and she's not coming back. I did this. This is my fault. </p><p>"Honey?" comes a soft. voice, and I spin to see my mom approaching me. </p><p>"Mom, I ruined it. I ruined us."</p><p>She pulls me into a hug, and I'm able to calm my breathing a bit with her arms around me. I know lots of teenagers my age who don't have good relationships with their parents, but thankfully I'm not one of them. They've always been very supportive of me and never had trouble accepting or understanding me. I'm really glad I have my mom to talk to now, because otherwise I think I would surely become a puddle of tears soon. </p><p>When she lets me go, she nods in the direction of the couch, and I follow her over there to sink down next to her. </p><p>"Tell me what happened," she says. </p><p>"I told her she was average," I mumble, feeling like scum as I recall the fight. "I said she was nobody that mattered."</p><p>"Did you mean it?" my mom asks. </p><p>"No," I say with a sniffle. "I just—I was mad, because my story didn't get accepted into the competition."</p><p>"Well, it sounds like you should go and apologize."</p><p>"I know, but—but I just don't think she understands me, you know? It's like she doesn't see the same world as I do. She sees everything as being...brighter, and I wish I could see what she sees, but I don't think I ever will."</p><p>My mom gives me a gentle smile and says, "Honey, just because someone else thinks differently than you doesn't mean they're not the right person for you. Did you know that when I met your dad, he had this awful bowling shirt that he wore everywhere? I tried to tell him that it was not meant for formal events, but he wouldn't listen. And you know what? He still wears it."</p><p>"That gross red shirt?" I say. </p><p>"That's the one. He likes a bunch of things I don't," my mom explains. "Designing the house was a nightmare, but I wouldn't have wanted him to change, because that awful red shirt was a part of who he was, and I loved him as he was. The question for you is do you like Libby as she is?"</p><p>"I do," I reply. "I really like her."</p><p>"She's a sweet girl," Mom agrees. "You know she came to my gallery the other day and helped me hang a bunch a paintings. What a sweetheart."</p><p>"She did that?" I say. "She never told me."</p><p>"Did you ask?" </p><p>I stay quiet. No, I guess I never asked. She always asks about me, but I hardly ever ask about her. And when I do ask, I find out that she brings pancakes to old people. She does all these little amazing things for people, and she never tells me. I wonder if it's because she just wants to be humble or because she genuinely doesn't want me to know. I wonder what else she does that I don't know about.</p><p>"Mom, I have to go," I say, standing up. </p><p>"Where?" she asks. </p><p>"There are some things I want to learn."</p><p>I grab my jacket off the hook by the door and blow my mom a kiss before stepping out into the hot air. It takes me a while to walk to my destination, but when I get there, I step up to the front desk where a young woman looks up from her computer. </p><p>"Welcome to Lamplight Retirement Residence. How can I help you?" she asks. </p><p>"Um, I'm wondering if you know someone."</p><p>"Sure. Are you family?"</p><p>"Oh, no, not someone here."</p><p>She looks confused. "Okay…"</p><p>"Her name is Libby," I say. "Red hair. Deaf. She brings pancakes here every day."</p><p>"Oh, her, of course!" the woman recalls. "What a lovely girl."</p><p>"Yes," I agree. "I'm wondering who she brings the pancakes to."</p><p>"I'm afraid I can't disclose her name to a stranger."</p><p>"I wanted to know if I could talk to her," I explain. "I want to know what she knows about Libby."</p><p>"Well, I don't think you'll get much from that," the lady states. "Your friend gives the pancakes anonymously."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"She tells me it's a gift, and she comes by often enough that I trust her, but she never wants the woman she brings the breakfast to to know her name or to see her. She always has me pass them on."</p><p>She never told me that part. I assumed she knew the person here. I assumed she wanted a thank you at the very least. But she never wanted any recognition at all. </p><p>"Thank you," I say to the lady at the desk. </p><p>She smiles and replies with, "Um, you're welcome."</p><p>Then I spin around and exit the retirement home, heading back down the street. I suppose there's nowhere else for me to go except home, so I start back in that direction, but on the way, I notice two little boys drawing chalk on the sidewalk outside of a flower shop. I usually wouldn't find that so distracting, except that they happen to be drawing on a really amazing-done portrait of a girl that looks a lot like me—with orange hair, of course. None of the colours are normal, but that's part of why I recognize it as being Libby's. </p><p>The boys don't look up at me. They just continue drawing. Curious, I look through the window of the flower shop, wondering if she's here. She's not, so I guess she must've come here earlier in the day. Still, I wonder if the lady working inside knows her. </p><p>A bell signals my entrance, and the woman stops arranging a display of pots and looks to me with a smile. </p><p>"Hello," she says. "Would you like help finding something today?"</p><p>"Well, yes, but not a flower," I reply. "I'm wondering if you know a girl. Her name is Libby. She has ginger hair, and she was wearing a blue dress today. She's also deaf."</p><p>"Oh, yes, she was here."</p><p>"Did she buy flowers?" I question. </p><p>"She bought one. A beautiful lily. But she only bought that after helping me set up a recent purchase of flowers," the woman explains. "I insisted she have the lily for free as payment for her help, but she wouldn't take it unless she paid for it."</p><p>"Do you know where she went after leaving here?"  </p><p>"She said she was going to the hospice down the street," the woman answers. </p><p>"The hospice?" I say in surprise. </p><p>"That's what she wrote. The girl has impeccable hand-writing."</p><p>"Okay," I say, trying to think about if she ever mentioned knowing anyone who was dying. She hasn't. "Thank you," I add before leaving to go to my next destination. </p><p>I've never been inside a hospice before. I always imagined they must be dreary and radiate permanent sadness, but this one doesn't. It seems surprisingly home-like with nice blue walls and comfortable couches for waiting at the foyer. Like before, I walk up to the front desk, and the man turns his attention to me. Rather than wasting more time with small talk, I skip directly to my intention. </p><p>"Do you know a Libby Truscott?"</p><p>"Does she live here?" the man asks. </p><p>"No," I say. "She visits."</p><p>"Well, I'll check the visitor's log."</p><p>He swivels his chair to his computer and begins typing. Soon, he finds what he's looking for and turns back to me. </p><p>"She was here earlier, yes."</p><p>"Does she have family here?" I ask. </p><p>"I believe it's more of a friend. Why do you ask?"</p><p>"Can I talk to them?" I say, ignoring his question. "The friend."</p><p>"First, I'll have to check if she wants visitors, but usually she does."</p><p>The man steps away and down the hall, while I wait anxiously at the desk. When he returns he gives me a nod and waves for me to follow him. </p><p>"Her name is Prissy," the man informs me. "She's in the last room on the right."</p><p>He boomerangs back the way he came from, and I carry on down the hall. When I peak into the room, I see a woman smiling from her bed, and on the windowsill, I see a lily. </p><p>"I wasn't expecting visitors," the grey-haired woman says as I enter in. "John said you know Libby."</p><p>"I do," I say. Then I look over to the flower and ask, "Did she bring that for you?"</p><p>"She did. She's such a thoughtful young lady. She always comes here to keep me company."</p><p>"If you don't mind my asking, how do you know her?"</p><p>"Oh, well, she started leaving flowers for me, and after the third day, I said enough is enough, and I requested to know who the mystery gift-giver was."</p><p>She didn't want to be recognized here either. She's basically a real-life Santa, giving so much and asking for nothing in return. And I said she was a nobody.</p><p>"What's your name?" Prissy asks me. </p><p>"I'm Iris," I answer.</p><p>Her face lights up. "Oh, you're the girlfriend!" </p><p>I consider correcting her, but I don't think I have the strength right now to relive the break-up, so I just respond, "Yeah."</p><p>"Oh, she's told me so much about you. She always gets so excited that I have to tell her to sign slower, or else I don't catch what she's trying to say. But she has such a big heart. That's girl's a keeper. Don't you let her go."</p><p>I smile weakly. <em>Too late. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi. A lot happened in this. Um, it was mostly a discovery chapter for Iris. And now I'm going to call it a night, so thank you all for reading, and I'll see you all tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After taking to Prissy for nearly an hour, the sky begins to fade to pink, and I decide I should be getting home. My feet on the cement is the loudest sound outside as I make my way through the neighbourhood. As I round the corner by a small shop called Maeve's Coffee and bakery, I slow to a halt.<em> I wonder...</em></p><p>The place is busy inside, everyone sitting and chatting in booths. Nobody, however, is looking through the newspaper rack that sits by the hall to the washrooms. I go over and begin lifting up each paper. About halfway through the pile, I realize this is stupid. There are so many places she could go. I doubt this one random coffee shop ever crossed her mind. </p><p>Right when I'm about to leave, I notice another rack by the doors on the other side of the building, and I squeeze through the line of people to get to that one. I peel up the top paper, and there it is. <em>Snapdragon.</em> I take the story and exit the shop to continue on down the street. While I walk, I start reading the first side of the page. </p><p>I almost trip at least four times over the sidewalk blocks, because I'm so focused on the ink in my hands. She's amazing. I figured she was probably just okay at writing, because she never tried to really do anything with it, but she's actually incredible. The most peculiar thing about it is that she didn't write her name down anywhere on this story. It's completely anonymous. Everything she does is anonymous. She never wants anyone to notice her. She never lets anyone notice her. But she deserves to be seen more than anyone I've ever met. </p><p>Carefully, I fold the paper and put it in my pocket. At the next stop sign, where I would cross the street to get to my house, I turn right. I'm not quite ready to go home yet. I have a few more things to find out.</p><p>My heart is pounding when I get up to Libby's front door and take out my phone to text her that I'm here. </p><p><b>Me:</b> Are you at home?</p><p><b>Libby:</b> Why do you care?</p><p><b>Me: </b>Because I'm here.</p><p>She reads it but doesn't respond. After another moment of nothing, I conclude that she must be too mad to give me chance. My heart sinks as I begin to turn around to go home, but then the door opens, and I spin back to see Libby stepping out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. </p><p><em>"What are you doing here?"</em> she questions. </p><p>"Um, I found your story," I say. "The one you left in Maeve's."</p><p>She looks taken aback by that. </p><p>"It was really good," I go on. "But you didn't have your name on it."</p><p><em>"I must have forgotten,"</em> she signs, her eyes now avoiding mine. </p><p>Something about this conversation is making her get flustered. She can't look me in the eyes, and she's signing faster than usual. </p><p>"I also talked to Prissy," I explain. </p><p>Her eyes go wide. <em>"How do you know about her?"</em></p><p>"The lady from the flower shop told me. What I'm wondering is why you didn't tell me?"</p><p>She hesitates for a moment before answering, <em>"It never came up."</em></p><p>"Libby, there are lots of things that never come up, but the fact that you go bring pancakes and flowers to people every single day should just be something that you bring up," I argue. </p><p>
  <em>"I just didn't think you needed to know."</em>
</p><p>"Know about you? About your life and what you do?" I question, my voice getting caught in my throat. Every word I speak gets more emotional, and I can't control it. "We were together for twenty-nine days. Almost a month. I thought I knew you for twenty-nine days, but it turns out you have this secret double life that you didn't want me to know about. Why didn't you want me to know about it?"</p><p><em>"Because you didn't need to know,"</em> she replies, and I can see tears beginning to build in her eyes. <em>"Nobody needs to know that it's me. Good things can just happen, and they don't need to know who caused them."</em></p><p>"But sometimes they want to know. Prissy said how she had to force you to let her know that you were the one bringing her flowers. I bet the person you bring pancakes for would want to be able to thank you."</p><p>
  <em>"They don't need to thank me."</em>
</p><p>"But they can. They can thank you if they want to."</p><p>
  <em>"I don't do those things to be recognized. I do them because they make people happy."</em>
</p><p>"You make people happy," I correct her. "You're the one who does all those things."</p><p>
  <em>"And I don't want to people to know it's me."</em>
</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p><em>"Because then—"</em> She pauses more a moment, her hands trembling from stress. <em>"I don't need to be seen to know when I'm doing well."</em></p><p>I can see on her face that she wants this conversation to be over, but when she starts to turn around, I sign again, making her freeze before she can fully look away.</p><p>"You know it's okay to accept praise every once in a while!" I state.</p><p>She takes a breath and looks me dead in the eyes. <em>"And it's okay to not be the centre of attention all the time!" </em>she counters.</p><p>"Right," I mutter. "But if you're always staying away from the centre, when does it stop being humble and just become hiding?"</p><p>She looks down at her feet, taking more than just time to come up with an answer. She's taking the time to actually think about what I said. When she finally lifts her eyes back up to mine, she lets out a breath. </p><p><em>"If nobody sees me,"</em> she signs, <em>"then they can't judge me. You think what I do is extraordinary, but you were right before. You were right when you said I was average, that I was nobody important. I'm not important. I help people, but I only do things anyone could do. I'm not talented like you are. You can write. You are beautiful. You have so many friends." </em>The tears in her eyes gleam in the sunlight. <em>"Iris, you were my only real friend. I don't make friends. I don't try to. And nobody has a problem with that, because there's nothing about me that anyone else couldn't do. I'm not extraordinary. I'm just…ordinary."</em></p><p>"But you aren't ordinary at all," I say. "You are the kindest person I know, and your smile makes anyone feel better in an instant, and you can draw so well. And I read your story. And it was amazing."</p><p>Libby shakes her head. <em>"It's just me trying to get thoughts out, but it could never win anything like yours have."</em></p><p>"Well, have you ever tried to win anything?" I retort. </p><p>She stays motionless. She hasn't. I knew that before I even asked the question. </p><p>After a moment of stillness, she raises her hands again and signs, <em>"It's getting late. You should go home."</em></p><p>She goes inside and seals the door on me before I can say anything else. But I don't think anything I say would matter that much anyway. It's what I do that matters. </p><p>I have an idea. I work it through my head on the way home, getting more determined by the second. When I get to my room, I turn on my computer and carry through with the plan. For a moment near the end, I hesitate to consider what I'm doing once more, but there's hardly anything to ponder. I click <em>submit</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi. This turned out better than I thought it would, and I'm really excited now for you all to read the final two (or maybe one, depending on how it goes) parts.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's 7:30 in the morning, far earlier than any normal person would be standing on someone's doorstep, but here I am at Libby's. Again, she takes her time to answer the door, but rather than come outside, she waves for me to come in, because she's still only in her Little Mermaid themed nightgown. She looks at me with tired eyes as I enter her house.</p><p><em>"It's 7:30 in the morning,"</em> Libby reiterates. </p><p>"I know, but I couldn't sleep," I respond. </p><p>She looks at me, a frown on her face, and signs, <em>"Me neither."</em></p><p>She also couldn't sleep. I wonder if it was for the same reason as me; she was thinking about us. </p><p>"Libby, I'm sorry I got mad at you," I say. "You were right about me. I only cared about people knowing my name, but I think I understand what you were trying to say now. It doesn't matter so much if people see me. What matters more is that I see me, and I know what I can do—what I do do. But I also hope you know that you are so special, and you deserve to be seen and heard. You deserve to be happy. And if that's not with me, I understand, but—"</p><p><em>"That is with you," </em>Libby cuts me off. <em>"I'm sorry for not telling you everything about me. It's just—it scares me. I'm afraid that if I let people see me, they won't want me anymore."</em></p><p>"That's not possible," I tell her. "Not for me."</p><p>I step forward, breaking our distance, to kiss her. Her hand finds my shoulder, gently holding me close. Everything about her is gentle, from her eyes to her movements to her lips. It's like she doesn't even have to try. She simply places her warmth at my feet for my body to absorb like rainfall on a flower. </p><p>When we back away, she's smiling, and I'm smiling because she's smiling. </p><p>"I know it's only been a day, but I really missed that," I say. </p><p>
  <em>"Only a day? It felt like a year. I'm not good at being mad."</em>
</p><p>"Same," I say with a laugh. </p><p>I pause for a moment, trying to remember the second thing I had to ask her. </p><p>"The Utah story competition is revealing the winners near the end of the August," I explain. "I know I didn't win, but I'm thinking of going to see who did. It's in Salt Lake City. My mom said she would drive me. I was hoping you would come too. I know it's a few weeks away, but—"</p><p>She gives me a smile. <em>"I would be delighted."</em></p><p>________________________________________</p><p>My brother and sister sit between my parents and Libby, who is busy teaching Ainsley all about dinosaurs. Libby's very into palaeontology. We've watched multiple films and documentaries together on the subject recently, and ever since my brother found out about Libby's interest, he won't leave her alone. </p><p>Isla pays more attention to my mom, asking her about every single detail of the high school auditorium. We've been waiting for a while for the announcement to be made, so she's getting pretty impatient. Personally, I'm enjoying watching Libby and my brother talk. It only assures me that she's the best person there is for me anywhere. </p><p>But eventually someone does get up on stage, and everyone who came to here to listen to the winner of the Utah youth story competition perks up to pay attention. But nobody is more invested in this than me. </p><p>"Welcome, all of you," the man speaks through the microphone. "First off, I want to thank East High for allowing us to use their auditorium for this presentation." The crowd applauds, and the man continues. "Every single one of you who submitted your work for this contest was remarkable, and we loved reading all of your stories, but there was one that stood out from the rest."</p><p>While he talks, Libby is watching me translate for her. I get a break when the man swaps for a woman with a navy pantsuit and an envelope in her hands, but as soon as she starts talking, I'm back to signing. </p><p>"The winner of the contest is here in my hands," the woman states. "Their story will be published in The Quill magazine, and they will also receive one thousand dollars prize money. Once I announce the winner, they are invited to come up on stage to read an excerpt from their story." She opens the envelope and smiles before stepping back up to the mic. "The winner is…Libby Truscott!"</p><p>When I sign that, Libby's eyes go wider that I've ever seen before, and I have the hugest grin on my face.</p><p><em>"How is that possible?"</em> she questions. <em>"I didn't submit a story."</em></p><p>"Are you sure?" I say. "Because you won."</p><p>She takes a moment to let that sink in. <em>"I won."</em></p><p>The crowd roars with clapping as she stands up onto her feet, but right before taking a step, she looks back to me. </p><p><em>"Will you read it for me?"</em> she asks.</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>She walks quickly, excited to get up on stage, but I can still see her shaking from nerves. The woman at the microphone reaches to shake her hand, and she accepts with a smile. When the woman holds the paper of Libby's story out for Libby, she shakes her head and gestures toward me. </p><p>"She's deaf," I explain. "Is it okay if I read for her."</p><p>"Yes, that's fine," the woman replies. </p><p>After passing me the page, she steps back to stand with the other speakers on the stage, and I bring Libby's story up to the microphone where she stand next to me. Then I take a breath and start reading my favorite part. </p><p>"A snapdragon's beauty blossoms away from the city lights. Rarely does one say their favorite flower is a snapdragon. Its name does not display the poise of a peony or a rose, nor is it as elegant as a lily or as bold as a sunflower. But a snapdragon has more petals than all of those. It keeps its beauty a secret from shallow eyes, so that one lucky person who finds it can enjoy it and know that it is just for them, not for everyone else in the world. That, in itself, makes its beauty even more of a treasure, because only a few find it, and to find beauty in something that no else does is a very beautiful thing. </p><p>"She made be believe I was a snapdragon," I finish. </p><p>I lower the paper, and the audience thunders in applause. When I turn to Libby, she's staring at me with a smile on her face. </p><p><em>"Which part did you read?"</em> she asks.</p><p>I point to the two paragraphs, and she follows my finger. </p><p><em>"That's my favorite part,"</em> she says. </p><p>"It's mine too," I agree. "I think my favorite flower is a snapdragon now."</p><p>She smiles again and turns to watch the audience clap for her. </p><p><em>"What do I do now?"</em> she asks me. </p><p>"Take a bow."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>One more part! I hope you liked this part. I'm excited to show you all the ending.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I flip through Libby's book of short stories while I sit next to her, leaning back against the headboard of her bed. In the book are several stories of hers that I've heard of but have never had the honour to read until now. While I'm in the midst of scanning one of the pages in the binder, Libby's hand crosses over, blocking my sight, and then she turns the pages to the back where she slides in the certificate she got from winning today. </p><p>"That's a nice touch," I say. </p><p>She smiles and pauses for a moment before saying, <em>"I know it was you who submitted my story."</em></p><p>"Are you mad?" I ask, feeling a little worried.</p><p>She shakes her head and lifts her chin up to kiss me. I drop the book to devote my full attention to her, and I make it last long enough that I can take in every drop of sunlight that she has to give. </p><p>When we separate, I say, "I think I'm going to write a story about this—you."</p><p><em>"About me?"</em> she signs. <em>"Who will you show this story to?"</em></p><p>I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe no one. Maybe one person on the internet who gives it a chance. Maybe just you. But I'm still thinking of a title."</p><p><em>"Call it 'Snapdragon'," </em>Libby says. </p><p>"But that's your story," I respond. </p><p>She smiles softly as her eyes look into mine, finding something deeper in them that I don't know about. <em>"My story belongs to anyone who tells it."</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That's the end! I hope you all liked this story. I really tried to make it good. Anyway, have a good night, and I love you all. Tomorrow, I'll be updating Stars Are Stupid.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>